Buckshot
by Niente Zero
Summary: Set after Bulletville. Raylan is in no-one's good books, Tim gets hurt and takes his shirt off, and Art busts in to show the boys how to do their job right. Warnings: Plenty o' cussin', spoilers in passing for Bulletville.


**Disclaimer: Hell if they was mine, I'd never let 'em out of bed.**

Tim Gutterson was okay.

Some people would have resented getting sent out on a shit job just because the real loser of the day needed back up. If Tim's nose was out of joint, he really didn't show it.

After what went down with Raylan going off to trade his ass for Ava with no backup but a crazy felon, and the cascade of violent death surrounding the whole Crowder-Givens sphere of influence, Raylan'd been pretty much persona non grata with everyone who counted. Ava was still floating on the wind somewhere. Winona seemed to disapprove of Raylan on everything from legal to sheer green-eyed jealous reasons. Art took a fresh bite out of Raylan every single morning while he was pulling desk duty. Rachel had a hard row to hoe of her own and didn't seem to see any good coming from being buddies with a fuck up like him. Even the manager at the hotel, who might have the most reason to be bitching, was giving him the cold shoulder, probably due to Raylan's inability to keep shit from getting bled on or shot through.

Tim didn't appear to give a damn about any of that. Not that he was anything approaching sympathetic to Raylan's situation, but sympathetic enough to drag Raylan out to a bar the evening of his first day back in the office after the shootings, buy him a double whiskey, and laugh his ass off at Raylan's recounting of the entire goddamn back country shoot-out in all its technicolor glory. That was pretty much what Raylan needed.

Raylan's first day back in the field, Art called him in, handed him a bundle of papers, and gave him an uncannily happy smile, the first smile since the debacle at Bo Crowder's cabin that hadn't looked more like dyspepsia than genuine happiness. It made Raylan nervous.

"Got some papers for you to serve. Think you can manage that without shooting anyone?" Art said.

"Reckon so." Raylan replied.

"Good, good. We'll get one of them accident record signs and chalk up the number of days you can go."

"Uh huh." Raylan suppressed an urge to roll his eyes. Art sure thought he was funny.

"So anyway, you're goin' to drive out past Versailles, old feller name of Chester out that way has to answer a subpoena about some criminal activity he witnessed. Shouldn't take you all day. Take Tim with you."

Versailles wasn't a long drive, and it was pretty country. Tourists liked it well enough, small towns and horse farms to ogle at. You could pick a tourist any time by the way they said the name, just like it was in France, not rural Kentucky. Could tell who wasn't from around these parts, for sure.

Joe Chester's place, somewhat more of a shack, was down a winding road a little ways past Versailles. Raylan got the driver's seat and Tim was navigating them down the rutted gravel. It was amazing how fast the roads turned to hell out here.

"So what exactly are we subpoenaing Mister Chester for?" Tim asked casually.

"Seems he was at the feed and tractor supply store and witnessed an altercation that lead to an assault. Couple of customers fightin' over whether one feller's new MF16000 was better'n the other feller's old John Deere."

"Oh yeah." Tim drawled. "Those are fightin' words."

"Art didn't outright say, but I reckon the implication was that someone was maybe fuckin' someone's wife, too, and the tractor conversation was kinda more the last straw."

"Huh." Tim said. "Yeah, that would figure."

The gate to Joe Chester's property was posted with signs warning against trespassing. Tim got out, opened the gate so Raylan could drive through, and closed it behind them. The shack was a ways further up the dirt driveway. Raylan pulled to a stop in view of the front door of the shack.

"Should be an easy enough job." he said. "You could probably stay with the car."

"Right. That's why Art sent you with back up." Tim said. "I can't figure out why, but he doesn't seem to want you to get yourself killed. We do it by the book."

It stood to reason that a man who tucked himself away behind a sign threatening trespassers with shooting might not welcome company too much. Both marshals had their hands on their guns as they exited the car, drawing out their badges and shouting to announce their presence.

"US Marshals, Mister Chester. My name is Deputy Givens and I have with me Deputy Gutterson. We're comin' in to deliver some paperwork."

There was no response, no movement, nothing from the house. Raylan's hand hovered over his holster.

Tim saw the light bounce off the barrel of the shotgun first.

"Gun! Get down. On the roof." he said, pushing Raylan to the ground and then falling after him with something between a grunt and a sigh as the man on the roof, presumably Joe Chester, loosed a shot that echoed around the wooded area. The two men crawled rapidly to the cover provided by the car, ending up leaned against the front passenger side.

"Ow. Fuck." Tim said.

"Lemme look." Raylan said.

"Shit, it's nothing, caught me clean across the back, got a few pellets in there probably, lucky old Joe's got a twelve gauge. Coulda been a lot worse."

Tim's words were all well and good but the man was shaking like he was at a revival meeting, and his voice sounded choked off compared to his regular casual drawl.

"Musta heard us coming up the road." Raylan said, peering over the hood of the car cautiously. "Don't appear to be fond of visitors."

The shotgun was still visible on the roof, its owner too old and canny to present a target for a couple of hotshot marshals, hidden behind a wide stone chimney. Between Tim and Raylan they could take him out, but that more or less guaranteed a lethal ending to the situation.

"Reckon the best we can do is retreat and regroup." Tim said. "Ain't worth getting shot up over a subpoena, and the old bastard's probably too stubborn to end this without us having to fire on him."

"Come back later with tear gas and Art to put the fear of God into Mister Chester?" Raylan said. "That works for me, I'd just as soon not get in another fuckin' redneck Thermopylae in the woods. Art's runnin' out of tolerance for that shit."

"Least you didn't draw on anyone yet today." Tim said.

"Maybe I shoulda drawn on Art. Figure the smile on his face he knew ol' Joe here was goin' to be a pain in our ass. Scoot back and hop in the back seat."

"Not my ass he shot." Tim said.

"Y'ain't got enough padding back there for it to make a difference anyways." Raylan said.

The two men crawled back so that they could climb into the car. Chester didn't seem inclined to shoot again while they weren't moving forward.

Raylan had never been happier to be stuck with an automatic than when he had to crawl over into the driver's seat with a shotgun trained on him. He turned to look at Tim, more or less lying across the backseat on his side, legs tucked up. Tim was winding down the driver's side window ready to lean out and shoot if Chester got any ideas while they were retreating.

"Ready? I'm gonna back her out, not worth the risk of tryin' to turn."

"Yeah, just back her out steady and I'll take him down if he sticks his head up in our direction."

Raylan looked over his shoulder as he slowly backed down the gravel drive. It was not the easiest of maneuvers. The drive was potholed and rutted and dropped off sharply to the left side. Knowing Tim was covering them was a huge help to Raylan's concentration. He wouldn't have been doing so well if he had to keep turning back around to keep an eye on Joe Chester and his twelve gauge.

Raylan backed up all the way to the swinging gate. It was tempting to just back on out through it. Chester deserved the repayment in kind for his brand of hospitality. But that wouldn't help any with the next effort to serve the subpoena that still sat in Raylan's jacket pocket. They were well out of range of Chester's gun, so there was really no excuse. With a sigh, he got out and opened the gate. He'd be damned if he was getting out of the car again to close it behind them though.

"Let me just get out a ways onto the main road and then I'll take a look at your back." Raylan said. Tim had wound the window back up and propped himself almost to a sitting position, still leaning forward and across the seats.

"Nah, they got a hospital in Versailles."

"And you got a shitload of blood on your shirt, so I'd kinda like to make sure you don't go gettin' shocky on me or anything dumb."

Tim rolled his eyes but didn't bother to keep arguing. Raylan Givens was a goddamn stubborn sonofabitch anyway.

Raylan navigated the winding back road out to the highway and pulled onto the shoulder.

"Okay, get your shirt off so I can take a look." he said, getting out of the driver's seat and opening the rear door to slide in beside Tim.

Tim removed his shirt rather gingerly, not having a whole lot of range of motion without causing himself a bit of pain.

"I know this is just what you've always wanted me to say, Raylan," Tim said dryly, "You're gonna have to help me get my undershirt off."

"Best offer I've had all week." Raylan said.

Tim lifted his arms as far as he could and let Raylan pull the blood soaked undershirt off over his head. Raylan placed his hand on Tim's back above the mess where he'd been hit, and drew in a sharp breath. Didn't look pretty, for sure.

"Looks like he was using double ought buck. Most're shallow but you got about three in pretty deep and bleeding bad. I'm gonna get the first aid kit out of the trunk and at least stop you bleeding all over the car."

Tim leaned forward diagonally from the back passenger seat across to the driver's seat, putting his head on his arms. Raylan would know better than to try to mess with any of the shot, hell, if he was lucky he'd get a pretty nurse picking it out in Versailles. But yeah, he could feel the usual been-shot shakes getting bad. Nothing to do with how tough you were, the body really didn't like anything about that kind of insult. It'd be a good idea to let Raylan patch him and keep some of the blood where it was supposed to be until someone professional could fix him up.

"Right, this is gonna hurt you a lot more than it hurts me." Raylan said, climbing back in behind Tim and taking his hat off. "Scoot forward a mite. There we go."

Tim's back was not exactly a smooth expanse of muscle before Joe's shotgun did its work. Raylan's eyes took in a variety of interesting scars. Men in their line of work didn't go to the grave pretty. Men in Tim's former line of work even less so. Raylan pulled on a latex glove from the first aid kit and smoothed antiseptic cream over the open wounds, and taped heavy gauze padding over the three that were bleeding most. Men like them had scars, sure, but it was kind of guilt-inducing that this new lot were acquired pushing Raylan out of the line of fire.

"Uh, thanks, by the way, didn't know you'd take a bullet for me." Raylan said, trying to keep it light and not totally embarrassing to both of them.

"Shit, Raylan," Tim said in a strained voice, "I took fuckin' buck shot for you. Think of it as a mortifyingly stupid hunting accident. Now can you get back on the road and get me to a hospital where someone prettier than you in scrubs can dig those little bastards out?"

"Sure. But, anyway, thanks." Raylan said, patting Tim on the shoulder. "I'd put your shirt back on you but it's sort of a rag now."

"I'll just have to give the folks at the hospital a good show then."

As soon as Tim was settled into a curtained off cubicle at the hospital with Sandy, who wasn't exactly pretty, but had forty years of experience digging buckshot out of hunters, Raylan made the call he'd been putting off as long as possible.

"Raylan. I like to imagine that you're callin' to tell me you're late back from deliverin' that subpoena because you and Tim got a powerful cravin' to get a bite at Kessler's before you came back to the office."

"Art. About that." Raylan said.

"Raylan Givens, the next words out of your mouth had best not involve you shootin' someone."

"Nah, I didn't shoot anybody." Raylan said. "Thing is, Joe Chester seemed a mite touchy about us comin' on his property. Tim's gettin' buckshot dug out of his ass right now."

Raylan forgave himself the white lie about the location of Tim's injury. It just sounded funnier that way. And an appeal to Art's innate sense of the absurd might get them off the hook at least a bit for getting shot up by a pensioner.

"Jesus H. Christ, Raylan. I gotta do everything myself? Just hold on there and I'll come out and show you boys how to do a real simple part of your job."

Art hung up. Raylan shrugged. The way Art drove he'd be at the hospital about when Sandy was done patching up Tim. Raylan settled down in a hard chair and stared at the unappealing pile of magazines, thinking of the things he could be doing that would be less of a waste of time.

Tim came out of the treatment room with his midsection bandaged, still shirtless, with a carton of juice with a straw in it in one hand. It all combined with mussed up hair to give him the look of a little boy lost. Raylan couldn't conceal a snicker. That couldn't be farther from the truth, but Sandy seemed to find it appealing and was mothering the heck out of Tim.

"Now dear, just you sit down here with your friend and drink that juice while I find you something to wear. We can't have you catching your death, or getting the young ladies all hot an' bothered, can we, sugah?"

"No Ma'am." Tim said with a straight face. As soon as Sandy was out of earshot he leaned over to Raylan surreptitiously and said "I don't think it's the young ladies I have to watch out for."

"She does seem to have taken a shine to you." Raylan said gravely. "You want to make a break for it?"

Tim shook his head. "Think I'm goin' to do what she said and sit here and drink my juice box."

Art picked that moment to stride into the waiting room.

"You all right, Tim?" he said.

"Just fine." Tim said, saluting Art with his juice carton. The slight slur to his voice belied his statement, but whatever Sandy'd shot him up with for the pain before she picked out the buckshot was giving him a hell of a second wind.

"Raylan, when I asked if you could serve a subpoena without shootin' anyone, I wasn't intendin' you to get anyone else shot either." Art rebuked.

"Wasn't Raylan's fault." Tim said. "Neither of us scouted the situation out well enough. No big deal, just gotta get the old guy off the roof."

"Guess I'll be takin' care of that while you boys watch and learn." Art said smugly. "You ready to get out of here?"

Sandy came back with a garish Hawaiian shirt.

"Well, hon, this is what was in the lost and found that looked close to your size, though I can see why someone might want it to stay lost, bless their heart."

"Thank you, Ma'am." Tim said. He handed his juice to Raylan and got the shirt on as far as it would go. There was no way it was buttoning over his chest, but he was as decent as he was getting.

Tim rode in the front on the trip back out to Joe Chester's shack, Raylan driving behind Art down the narrow roads. Raylan kept throwing glances over at Tim, but nothing much changed. He was twisted in his seat to keep the bandaged part of his back from pressing against everything, and his eyes were heavy lidded like he was on the way to sleep. Raylan didn't bother making conversation even though it could be real funny if Tim was on good drugs.

Raylan pulled up beside Art outside Joe Chester's cabin, further back than they'd parked before. His instinct was to get out of the car and back Art up, but Art had given explicit instructions that he and Tim were to "sit your asses down, keep your mouths shut, and follow my lead."

"Joe Chester, you goin' to come down off that roof?" Art yelled. "You know me, Art, Art Mullen."

"Goddamned revenuers! Get off my land or I'll give you what I gave the other one!" a strong but reedy voice shouted back down from the roof.

"Revenuers? Hell, I'm downright offended that you'd mistake me for a representative of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. I don't give a good goddamn what you got brewin' in your bathtub still, Joe. Just so's you don't turn anyone blind."

"What you doin' on my land then? Why'd those other fellers come 'round shoutin' and raisin' a fuss?"

"Come down here without your gun and we'll talk about it peaceably." Art yelled back.

There was a long silence. Raylan's hand was at his holster. Tim was keeping an eye on the action through one open eye and one half shut. Raylan figured Tim only needed about one eye to shoot down the old feller anyway if it came to that.

"All right, I'm comin' down." Joe yelled.

Art gestured for Raylan and Tim to join him. It took a good five minutes for Joe to get down off the roof and out in front of his cabin. He had to be ninety if he was a day, bent over with arthritis but wiry as hell. He'd probably outlive the lot of them if he didn't fall off his roof while chasing off imaginary revenuers.

"Well now, that's better." Art said, seeing Joe without his shotgun.

"What's all this fussin' about?" Joe Chester said.

"Got a subpoena to serve to you as a witness." He gestured to Raylan who produced the document. Joe took it and took a pair of reading glasses out of his pocket. He read over the document slowly and then laughed a dry, thin laugh.

"Y'all came out here to get me to stand up and testify against Lee Owen for sluggin' Donnie Workman at the feed store?" he asked incredulously.

"That's the gist." Art said.

"You know I'm just goin' to get up on the stand an' say Donnie was sleepin' with Merlene Owen an' got what he was comin', don't you?"

"Figured, but you still got to testify." Art said.

"That's all y'all came out here for?"

"It was, 'til you shot up one of my deputies." Art said. "That's a serious offense."

"I thought they was here about the still. I ain't goin' to let no-one close down my daddy's still. Makes fine whiskey an' anyone round here will tell you that if you have the sense t' ask 'em."

"You can't go shootin' people because you think they're from the ATF. Hell, ATF hasn't even been botherin' with operations like yours for 'bout thirty years unless you give 'em reason. Legal alcohol's too cheap fer you to be competition. 'Sides, my deputies say they identified themselves as Marshals."

"Maybe I didn't hear too good." Joe Chester grumbled.

"Well, normally you'd do some good jail time for shootin' on a Federal Law Enforcement Officer, Joe."

Joe Chester seemed to shrink in on himself, finally looking as frail as his age would suggest.

"But you know what, I don't reckon either of my boys are goin' to want to get up on the stand and admit they got outshot by an old feller like you. Right, boys?"

Tim and Raylan mumbled "No, sir." like Art'd told them.

"So Joe, I reckon we can put it down to you bein' hard of hearing and thinkin' the boys were trespassers. You'd be within yer rights to shoot if you thought they was a danger. But you're goin' to have to give up your guns."

"No jail time?" Joe Chester said, the spark back in his eye, his spine a little straighter.

"Hell naw, no point makin' my boys look any dumber than they already made themselves look." Art said. "Now go get that shotgun for me." He had no illusions that Joe Chester wouldn't acquire himself another weapon, but confiscating it was the responsible thing to do. As Joe went back in the house, Art turned to Tim and Raylan.

"That, boys, is how you serve a subpoena."

Tim dozed all the way back to Lexington. The radio kept Raylan company. By the time they got back, Tim perked up considerably, the short nap doing a lot to restore his energy.

The sudden silence when the two deputies entered the department made Raylan somewhat nervous until he saw the reason for it. Propped up by his desk was a dinky blackboard on an easel. Chalked on it was the legend "Number of Days Without Raylan Getting Someone Shot Up." and in the small space left under the cramped hand printing, a big fat zero.

There was a small round of applause lead by the obvious culprit for the prank, Chief Deputy Mullen. Raylan shook his head and rubbed his eyes.

Tim clapped Raylan on the shoulder. "Come on. Let's get out of here. Must be your turn to buy the whiskey."

Yep. Tim Gutterson was okay.


End file.
